


It's Getting Hard, This Holding Back

by ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunning Plans, Developing Relationship, Explicitly Romantic Physical Expressions of Affection, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Podfic Available, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, Use Your Words, hair petting, kind of like playing chicken except with cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-19 16:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20212963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: 6,000-odd years is a long time to evolve a romantic relationship, but as a near-immortal being, Crowley had patience. True, they had lost momentum right around reaching the Speaking Looks and Meaningful Gestures stage, but at the time Crowley had been more or less content to let things idle.Now, he was determined to shift things back into gear, and that gear was Explicitly Romantic Physical Expressions of Affection.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   * Fully drafted, but posting in chapters to allow time for clean up. Expect a new chapter every day or so.
>   * Y'all, I'm very American. Best attempts at self-Brit-picking were made, but holler in the comments if you spot something egregious.
> 
> [Edit 5/6/2020]: Y'all, [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan/) has recorded an [amazing podfic version of this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24023212/). I'm lying on the floor with emotions, it's so great.

On the seventh day after the almost-Apocalypse, Aziraphale walks into his study with a book in one hand, fresh cup of tea in the other, and finds a giant black snake coiled up in the middle of the floor. For most people, finding an unexpected snake in your study would be cause for considerable alarm. Aziraphale, however, is only mildly confused. And even if we concede that there might be a limited number of people in the world who would share this reaction, it would most certainly be because they keep a giant black snake for a pet and would be wondering how it got out of its safe enclosure. The source of Aziraphale's confusion, though, is the bright sunbeam the snake is basking in. He can't remember the last time his windows were clean enough to permit such an aggressive amount of sunlight. For one, too much natural light might promote the kind of welcoming environment that would attract customers; for another, it could damage the more fragile items in his collection. He narrows his eyes at the snake and then looks up to the windows. The pane just above his desk is immaculately clean and positively glowing.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says with a tiny lift at the end that makes it almost but not quite a question. When the snake doesn't so much as twitch, he asks more bluntly, "Crowley, what are you doing?"

The snake, whose red accents are a bit too flash for it to be anyone other than Crowley, is resting coiled with his head tucked up so the sun warms the back of his skull. A forked tongue briefly tastes the air. Aziraphale imagines if Crowley were instead a cat he might have the squint-eyed look of satisfaction the beasts get when completely ignoring someone trying to get their attention. Crowley doesn't have eyelids to squint with in this form, but something that feels similarly smug is practically radiating off him.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes upward seeking patience and then determinedly decides Not to Bother About It and proceeds to his desk with book and tea to get on with his plan for a nice, long morning read. When Crowley's a snake, he sometimes likes to pretend he can't talk or even understand human speech—patently ridiculous considering his most infamous interaction in serpent form—so Aziraphale believes it unlikely he'll get anything out of the demon until he decides to shift back.

After a moment's consideration, he judges the path of the sunbeam will only cross over the desk, and it's the work of but a few moments to relocate some of the more delicate pieces residing there to duskier locations. He casts one last look over his shoulder at his scaley friend to shoot him a reproving glare, but then puts on his reading glasses and settles in to his chair to read.

After about a chapter, he hears a soft susurration behind him. He looks back at Crowley in time to see the snake finish recoiling himself slightly closer to the chair, recentered in the drifting patch of sunlight. When Aziraphale turns back after the interruption, his gaze snags on his neglected tea, which he is pleased to discover is still warm. Potential damage to business reputation and book collection aside, perhaps a snake-shaped alarm clock is more useful than not.

The pattern repeats twice, until the snake is curled up right next to the chair, sharing the sunbeam with the angel. Some time after that, Aziraphale feels a touch at his ankle and looks down into relative gloom to see the end of the snake's tail has looped twice around his ankle. He looks back up toward the window and realizes the sun has climbed high enough that there is no more sunbeam to bask in.

"Are you going to be warm enough down there, my dear?" Aziraphale asks solicitously. "Only, the sun's gone. You might want to change back and have a kip on the couch instead."

Crowley's head stays motionless, facing away from the angel, but his tail makes one more slow loop around Aziraphale's leg.

"Well," Aziraphale huffs, irritated by the relative cold shoulder he's being given even as he's obviously meant to serve as an alternative sunning rock. He mutters about ungrateful serpents, but as he turns back to his book he fiddles with his corporation's internal thermostat to raise his temperature by a degree or so.[1] The aura of smug rising from the floor palpably increases.

Without the sound of Crowley's regular movements to lightly break his concentration, Aziraphale is soon completely absorbed in his book and feels the passing of time only as a faint ticking in the back of his consciousness. When his internal clock tips from early afternoon to Tea Time, he rouses with the idea of fetching a bite of something from his kitchen. As he does so, he becomes aware of two things simultaneously:

One: At some point, Crowley had transferred the bulk of his coils from the floor into Aziraphale's lap, with several loops still winding down around one leg from knee to floor.

Two: At some presumably later point, Aziraphale's distracted body moved the hand not busy turning pages onto the mass of snake in his lap and started leisurely petting the sleek scales.

He's reminded of the times he's sat reading in establishments that keep cats and the creatures' uncanny ability to manifest in a lap. And hot on the heels of this second cat-related comparison of the morning is the realization that by all rights he should be crushed under this amount of snake, which feels not so much like five or so yards of scaley muscle but the grounding weight of a generously sized lapcat. Since his own drawing of attention to the matter doesn't suddenly cause the snake to gain four stone, he assumes Crowley is exerting some influence to make his presence less conspicuous—likely in aid to his miraculous transfer from floor to lap, which Aziraphale still can't dredge up any sense memory of.

"You wiley thing, you," he murmurs and purses his mouth at the way Crowley's head is still pointedly facing away from him. He can't even properly give the serpent a reprimanding look. Still, he's loath to move his friend, who is clearly quite comfortable and taking at least some pains not to be a nuisance.

With a sigh, he plucks a fresh cup of tea from the air and resigns himself to waiting to eat, as he doesn't care to miracle himself food, which never has the same verve as the real thing. Though, it would serve Crowley right if he were to call up the crumbliest scones in existence. He'll get his payback by insisting Crowley accompany him to the delicious new Indian restaurant on the corner whose particular decor makes Crowley's eyes water.

By the time his internal clock tells him it's nearing evening, he resurfaces to find Crowley has further invaded. A heavy coil drapes across his shoulders and loops loosely around his neck like a scaley scarf. Something smooth is pressing down the back of his neck, and after a moment he realizes it must be the snake's snout tucked just down the back of his collar, which is unaccountably loose with the ends of his bow tie dangling.

In fact, now that he's not so distracted by his book, he metaphorically sits back (not literally, of course, lest he squash his friend's head against the high back of the chair) and acknowledges how unprecedented and, frankly, bizarre the whole thing is. While Crowley doesn't often take his snake form, it's happened often enough over the millennia for Aziraphale not to mistake him for a particularly stylish python. But he's never, to the angel's recollection... lounged, for lack of a better term, quite so thoroughly on him.[2]

He allows himself to savor the weight settled upon him and the perception that, perhaps a bit fancifully on his part, he's being held or perhaps even clutched tight. A besotted smile tugs at his lips even as his brow furrows. He raises a hand to lightly pet the shiny black scales draped around his neck and ponders the potential instigators of such a dramatic shift in attention—a not unwelcome one, of course. If Crowley had straightforwardly asked him "Hey, mind if I take a nap in your lap while you read?" he would have—no. In no world can Aziraphale imagine Crowley asking something so unabashedly tender of him straight out. Faced with that, he supposes this roundabout approach is much more in line with the demon's typical style. But the question he can't quite answer for himself is why.

"Crowley..." he says, fully prepared to ask after his friend's feelings, and then lapses into pensive silence. 6,000 years of evidence suggests his planned line of questioning will lead, at best, to a lot of sniping or, at worst, several decades of radio silence. Perhaps Crowley is feeling a bit wobbly after the events of the Almost Apocalypse. Or perhaps he really was just feeling a bit cold; Aziraphale had indulged him by raising his body temperature, after all. Or, maybe, it was a bit of demonic mischief to see how much the snake could get away with while Aziraphale was lost in his book.[3] Well, if he can't ask, he can just keep a weather eye out for other odd behavior and observe if some sort of pattern emerges that he can discern.

Course decided, he says, finally, "I'm getting hungry, and you've made me miss tea. Change back, please. I've decided you owe me samosas."

It takes a moment, but Crowley draws his head out of Aziraphale's collar. As he unwinds from around Aziraphale's neck, he bumps the angel in the face not once but twice, and then takes, in Aziraphale's opinion, an unnecessarily complicated path in getting all of his self back onto the floor.

"Is this really necessary?" Aziraphale huffs as he tugs his hand out from where it had been temporarily pinned to his chest to adjust his askew glasses. There's no answer, of course, except for the snake to, somehow, also pin Aziraphale's tail-free leg to the chair as Crowley slithers to the floor.

Aziraphale lightly bats at him and fusses, but presently his corporation is snake-free, and he's able to stand for the first time in far too many hours. Of course, being an angel, he's only as conscious of the stiffness and pain that comes from not moving for a long period as it is convenient to him. In this case, he finds it exceptionally convenient to notice, and agonizes vocally with prejudice. He hobbles out of the study after the snake and finds Crowley already back in his human form, hands in pockets and rolling his entire head around to convey his exasperation.

"Oh, quit your whinging," he says, but waits until Aziraphale draws abreast of him to start heading to the door. "I've seen you sat still long enough to collect actual, literal dust."

As Aziraphale doesn't have the grounds to dispute him, he settles for a mild glare and hurrying to beat the demon to the door.

Most certainly a prank, Aziraphale concludes with a huff.  


* * *

  
1 He, of course, ignores any symptoms that one might expect from effectively giving oneself a fever, as acknowledging them would impede his ability to concentrate comfortably on his book. [return to text]

2 Aziraphale can in fact only recall one other time his friend has touched him in snake form: During the insufferably dull stowaway on Noah's ark, Crowley had spent the better part of his time as a snake to "blend in," as he claimed, and definitely not to mildly terrorize various animals and the limited human population on board. However, one day he'd riled the mongooses sufficiently that they'd worried open the gate of their enclosure and given chase. This led to Aziraphale unexpectedly staggering under the entire weight of his friend when Crowley used him as an escape tree. Trying to shoo the chattering mongooses away while clutching at the slithering coils of his friend had been quite a chore. Crowley hissing invectives at the pair from over the top of his head the whole time hadn't helped. When Aziraphale peevishly demanded to know why Crowley didn't just change back to his human form to dissuade them, the demon had sauntered off and spent most of the rest of the trip sunning himself on the roof of the ark. [return to text]

3 In Aziraphale's defense, there was that one time shortly after the Arrangement was established but before they'd worked out all their communication kinks that they both ended up stationed in the same cloister of monks, and Crowley had made a game of seeing how many goose feather quills he could sneak into the angel's hair while he was distracted before anyone commented. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate web searches in my browser history:
> 
>   * video: snake hugs
>   * oh no how do you measure things in the UK
>   * what even is the plural of mongoose


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so maybe two chapters to kick us off since I've already obsessively edited the front half of the story a few times, and these first two are short.

It was not a prank; it was a Cunning Plan. And while the two concepts might not be mutually exclusive, there was a stark difference in the motivation behind what Aziraphale assumed Crowley was about and what the demon was actually—a bit desperately, in fact—about.

The angel had been on the right track with his initial assumption about why his friend had suddenly decided to give him a day-long scaley hug, except that there was nothing sudden or unconsidered about it. A hypothetical confidant to Crowley's actual plan might nervously recommend that the demon was, perhaps, overthinking things a bit.

The Cunning Plan did not have an explicit name. Rather, rolling around in the most decadent recesses of Crowley's demonic mind was the intense desire to evolve his association with his friend such that he could, with confidence, maneuver the angel onto a soft horizontal surface and face plant into his neck with the expectation that the upper limit of response would be some light grousing and perhaps a kiss to his temple. His largely unacknowledged heart seethed with longing to be able to think nothing of laying his head in Aziraphale's lap on a lazy afternoon because the only plausible reaction would be for the angel to softly pet his hair. His supremely demonic essence writhed with unspeakable desperation to be able to walk up and hook his chin over Aziraphale's shoulder and nuzzle his cheek with no more reaction than a small smile and a gentle pat to the side of his face.

6,000-odd years is a long time to evolve a romantic relationship, but as a near-immortal being, Crowley had patience. True, they had lost momentum right around reaching the Speaking Looks and Meaningful Gestures stage, but at the time Crowley had been more or less[4] content to let things idle. With their respective occult and ethereal roles and nosey bosses always poking about, there was a natural barrier to progress that was difficult to overcome, especially when—and Crowley would readily admit this—both halves of the relationship were rather allergic to honest, open communication.

However, the fires that had burned (or apparently burned, in one case) the two most treasured things in Crowley's universe a few weeks ago had also evaporated his last drop of patience. Now, he was determined to shift things back into gear, and that gear was Explicitly Romantic Physical Expressions of Affection.

Because the thought of expressing these desires in a healthy dialogue with his friend made him break out in hives, however, Crowley had decided that the only reasonable way to move things forward was to engage in a stealth campaign of slowly escalating physical contact. Aziraphale had set the parameters of Crowley's strategy when he said Crowley went too fast for him, and Bea Aurther as his witness, Crowley was going to slow walk the nervy angel into the deep end of the pool of his unholy affections.[5] The plan has six simple steps:[6]

  * Step 1: Increase frequency of casual touches to begin desensitizing the angel to demonic contact
  * Step 2: Test tolerance to more expansive contact while in non-human form, where established precedent recommends the angel is more likely to overlook odd behavior
  * Step 3: Proceed to more contact in human form while both parties are drunk so the motives behind any actions are subject to plausible deniability
  * Step 4: Repeat of same sorts of expansive contact but under the guise of being sleep befuddled, and count on the angel's soft heart and stiff manners to resign him to acceptance
  * Step 5: Again as step four, but while the angel is reading, to establish subconsciously that the demon is aware of his actions
  * Step 6: Face plant into angel's neck, etc.

So far, Steps 1 and 2 have been smashing successes. Never let it be said that Crowley doesn't have an appreciation for craftsmanship; he just has a vastly higher threshold for when he'll consider putting in the bother.

"Oi," he says softly, tapping Aziraphale's arm with the back of his hand, "see that big bugger with the patch of white on his beak?" When the angel looks over, he tilts his chin at the duck in question until the furrow between Aziraphale's eyebrows smooths out. "Didn't we see him in Tadfield last week?" While Aziraphale squints at the bird, Crowley casually adjusts his arms along the back of the bench so that the back of his hand presses lightly against the angel's shoulder. He's found, upon careful experimentation,[7] that Aziraphale doesn't notice the longer touches if they are immediately preceded by lighter, more plausible "we're all friends here" versions of the action.

"You know, I think you might be right," Aziraphale says slowly. "He was quite keen on the grapes I was having, and I marked that spot on his bill especially."

Crowley whips his head around from staring at the angel's profile to look at the duck again. He'd just made up a bit of bollocks about a notable-looking duck, but had they _actually_ seen the same duck in Tadfield? Is that why it had caught his eye?

He straightens up in his seat and shifts closer to Aziraphale as he does so, unease unfurling in his gut. He pins the duck with an unblinking stare. The duck, for its part, serenely bobs in the pond.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Aziraphale open his mouth and close it again silently, his face a picture of gentle concern.

"You don't suppose..." the angel says, trailing off.

"Bloody _spies_," Crowley hisses. "Which side do you figure it is? How much do you think they've heard?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dare to guess," Aziraphale says, faintly. Crowley can feel him start to tremble where their arms are now pressed together.

"What's your policy these days about not wanting to look your food in the face before you eat it, angel?" he growls.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale practically gasps, and the trembling increases.

"Don't worry, angel, I've got this," Crowley vows and raises a hand with fingers poised to snap.

Aziraphale makes and strangled-sounding squeak, and he yanks Crowley's hand down. Crowley tears his eyes away from the villainous duck to get a better look at the angel and does a double-take.

Aziraphale's face is horrifically pursed and pink in the way it only gets when he is desperately trying not to laugh out loud.

"Angel?" Crowley asks, incredulous.

Aziraphale loses the battle with himself and starts giggling uncontrollably, leaning into Crowley's side and clutching their clasped hands to his chest as his entire body quakes.

"Why are you...?" Crowley trails off when the penny drops. The unease in his gut miraculously transforms into betrayed outrage.

"Half the ducks in this pond have white on their bills_,_" Aziraphale manages to get out between gulping breaths. "Sinister feathered agents. Oh, Crowley, dear boy, you are too much."

"You bastard," Crowley breathes, feeling a bit spiky with leftover adrenaline but reluctantly amused. The fact that Aziraphale is still awkwardly holding his hand is doing a remarkable job of smoothing over his ire. "All right, fine, I'm not a duck expert. Well done, you messed me about," he says, slouching out of his alert posture but not moving back to his side of the bench.

"I do appreciate how quick you were to defend us both against the scourge of the pond," the angel chuckles. He releases Crowley's hand to lightly pat his knee. The demon aggressively redirects all the gibbering feelings this sets off in him into an impressive eye roll.

"Well, what's a duck to Satan himself?" he quips.

Aziraphale hums and resettles his hands in his lap, but he doesn't make any sign of moving away, even though they're now pressed together from shoulder to knee on the bench. Crowley decides to call it a win. Even if he'd prefer it not to be at the expense of his dignity, he'll gladly reap the unintended benefits of the angel thinking he's going a bit spare.  


* * *

  
4 Less. Very much less. None more less.[return to text]

5 To be perfectly fair, Crowley probably wasn't too far off the mark when he thought that trying to express himself plainly to the angel would probably not work out: Either he would violently spill the dramatic depths of his yearning in a torrent that would swamp the angel and cause the demon to spontaneously discorporate in mortification, or he would wildly overshoot playing it cool to the point of catapulting all genuine emotion right to the moon.[return to text]

6 “Simple” in this case being entirely relative to the first few drafts of the Cunning Plan.[return to text]

7 Crowley is not a great student of the scientific method. Otherwise, he might have realized that his “experiments” lack a control: since he's started this plan, he's yet to observe an instance where the angel actually startled from one of his touches. In fact, if one considers that his entire plan _boils down_ to a more tactile version of the frog in the pot parable, one might have cause to wonder which of them was truly the frog in the retelling.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate web searches in my browser history:
> 
>   * images: ducks st. james park uk
>   * the scientific method 
>   * what's the thing about slowly boiling a frog called 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, of course, to my lovely beta, [onlysmallwings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onlysmallwings/).

When Crowley sloppily throws his legs over Aziraphale's lap, the angel is just drunk enough to feel it's intended as some sort of emphatic punctuation to the end of the demon's argument. And since the demon has just impugned a rather favored book of his, he grabs an ankle to give it a vigorous, disapproving shake.

"Milton is not a 'hack'!" he decrys, but is immediately distracted from his ire by the feel of Crowley's ankle in his hand. It's deliciously boney, he decides, and he begins a pleasing game of shifting his hand slightly back and forth to fit the pointy bits into the valleys between his fingers.

"He wrote me out of my own story!" Crowley drunkenly roars.

"Yes, yes, you're the most infernal serpent," Aziraphale says, carefully bringing up his other hand to give his stroppy friend a pat on the knee. This boney part of Crowley also fits delightfully in his palm, so he leaves it there and admires the balance he's achieved with both hands.

"Thought you'd disapprove of him," Crowley presses, wriggling further down in his seat, which is currently more of a horizontal sprawl with his back to the opposite arm of the sofa. All the wriggling means even more of his legs end up thrust over the angel's lap. Aziraphale adjusts his arm to drape over the demon's thighs so he won't have to move his hand from the kneecap he's absently rubbing.

"Why's that?" he asks and then blinks down in mild befuddlement as his somewhat sloshy brain catches up to the fact that he's practically hugging the lower half of his friend to his lap. It is a rather shocking amount of contact, even for a night with this many empty wine bottles littering the end table. He has the sudden, vivid sense memory of a lapful of snake coils.

"Made Lucifer look all tragic hero, made out like the original woman was born lesser and vain," Crowley says while ticking off the points on his fingers. "Talked a big game about angels fucking." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Aziraphale feels a flush heat his face but refuses to rise to the obvious bait. "Well, he got at least one important bit right."

"Hmm?"

He's got just enough liquid courage that he can hold Crowley's gaze when he says, "That Adam did it for love."

The demon's baseline restlessness calms for a moment, and the angel doesn't think he's imagining the sudden tension in the air when Crowley blinks softly and mutters, "Lots of people do stupid things for love, angel."

The moment holds its breath, wondering gleefully if the two idiots have drunkenly stumbled onto the precipice of a confession. However, the ancient, supernatural beings simultaneously find different, completely innocuous aspects of the bookshop immensely compelling, and the moment lets its breath out in a metaphysical raspberry.

Aziraphale eventually gives up squinting at an oddly shaped water spot on the ceiling and consciously slouches into his seat. He's pretty sure he's not as drunk as Crowley, but putting in the appearance of such will likely excuse the fact that he's not ready to stop clutching his friend's legs to his chest like a knobbly blanket. In fact, now that he's a bit lower, it wouldn't require much effort to tilt the peak of Crowley's knees just a bit closer so he could lean his cheek on them and feel the precise shape of the boney things with his face. He's not sure, through the warm haze of alcohol coursing through him, why this seems like such an appealing idea, but now that it's come to him, he can't shake it, and it's taking just enough willpower not to act that he's rapidly reconsidering his earlier assessment of his drunkenness.

"Angel," Crowley says flatly.

Aziraphale starts and guiltily lifts not just his eyes but his entire head up from where he realizes he's been staring intently at the dark fabric covering his friend's knees.

"Hmm?" he tries, attempting to infuse heavenly nonchalance into his tone as he bobbles his head to look at the demon.

Crowley is somehow even further slouched onto the cushions than prior, one arm dangling toward the floor, glasses further dangling from his fingertips. The other arm is draped across his face, hiding his eyes except for where the light catches a faint glint in the shadows. Aziraphale's gaze wanders down, and one side of his face squinches up in consternation. At some point, Crowley's normal shirt and giant snake belt must have faffed off to parts unknown, and now under his jacket he's only wearing one of the soft-looking T-shirts he favored during the time they were watching young Warlock. Come to think of it, the wash of the jeans he's wearing feels unexpectedly soft under Aziraphale's palm. Crowley looks, overall, quite like he'd be very comfortable to stretch out on top of, if one were so inclined.[8] And, frankly, he's been rather inclined for quite a while. All it took to quash his anxiety about the potential repercussions was an averted apocalypse and an attempted double assassination by their respective head offices.[9]

"Angeeeeel," Crowley drawls, again pulling Aziraphale from what he realizes are increasingly long studies of his friend's corporation.

"Crowley," he responds, only slightly embarrassed by how exasperatedly fond it comes out.

"Why're you glaring at my knees, hmm?" the demon slurs softly.

What he doesn't ask, Aziraphale's muddled brain helpfully points out, is why Aziraphale is cuddling his knees. This, he tentatively concludes, must mean that Crowley doesn't mind, and so he can be assumed to be absolved of any potential guilt he might feel about it at such a time when his good sense finds its way back from being washed out by wine. It's a cheering thought, so he beams.

"They're wonderfully pointy," his stupidly honest mouth decides to say.

Even though Aziraphale can't properly see Crowley's eyes, he knows exactly the flat sort of stare his friend is—quite rightfully—giving him. "All right," Crowley says eventually.

Of course, now that one part of his mind has decided that Crowley probably doesn't, in fact, mind him gently molesting his person, another rather more tightly wound part decides to Raise a Doubt. Perhaps this _isn't_ Crowley relaxing more fully around him and passively demonstrating he's comfortable with more physical displays of affection from the angel. Maybe he's too drunk to contemplate the magnitude of the transgression. Or, it could be he's tired and wants the sofa for a nap. Perhaps this is his unconscious way of signaling the angel to clear out.

"What's that," Crowley mumbles.

"Hmm?"

"Your face. It just did the eyebrow thing it does when you're overthinking something. Stop that," the demon gripes and knocks his knee into Aziraphale's chest like he can prod the anxiety out.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, and makes an effort to smooth out his expression. "I just wondered if you wanted the sofa for a nap."

The demon makes a few considering noises in the back of his throat before landing on, "Could do. D'you mind if I drop off?"

"Not at all," Aziraphale assures and, with a nervous final pat to Crowley's knee, employs a minor miracle to ensure that when he surges to his feet and pivots that he successfully deposits his friend's legs back on the sofa cushions without throwing either of them to the floor.

Crowley makes a sound like "whu" and then "yuh" and half sits up before the physics of alcohol defeat him and he's back to being horizontal and akimbo on the sofa. "I didn't mean you had to get up," he eventually gets out.

By this point, Aziraphale has forcefully sobered up and is tugging his waistcoat back to rights. "Oh, don't worry, dear boy, I was just thinking I ought to get back to the inventory. Still haven't discovered all the new volumes young Adam bestowed upon me."

He can feel Crowley's eyes on him, but he just knows if he looks over the slight flush he can feel in his face is going to combust into a full-on blush, and he can't blame the alcohol any longer. So, perhaps his anxiety got the best of him and now he's brought some unnecessary awkwardness into an otherwise lovely evening. However, he is also fairly certain if he had stayed on that couch he was going to eventually take a liberty that even a drunk Crowley wouldn't have shrugged off.[10] The poor dear was just beginning to open up more; the last thing Aziraphale wanted to do was let his affection gush too overwhelmingly and spook the prickly demon.

After another excruciatingly awkward moment,[11] Crowley flops onto his side, putting his back to the room. Aziraphale takes that as his cue to head into the stacks. Behind him, he can hear his friend grumbling something into the sofa cushions.

* * *

  
8 This is, of course, a highly calculated Look the demon has spent almost thirty minutes subtly working to deploy in full force. [return to text]

9 It was rather a lot of anxiety to overcome, but the thing about facing a bath of holy water intended to annihilate your best friend while an entire demonic realm and one of Heaven's highest jeer in satisfaction is that it obliterates your personal definition of "worst-case scenario." As he idly flicked drops of potential destruction at the other denizens of hell, he'd realized his anxieties over "what if" had ballooned so dramatically that they'd effectively popped and left him prepared to give any and all who questioned his relationship with Crowley a polite "fuck off." [return to text]

10 There likely isn't any liberty the angel could think of that Crowley isn't prepared to at least give a sporting chance to in the name of successfully executing The Plan, even the kinds of highly moist and messy liberties that aren't really his preferred scene but that he wouldn't mind terribly if the angel was keen. [return to text]

11 The Moment would like it known that any awkwardness was the sole responsibility of the two supernatural beings in the room, thanks very much. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate web searches in my browser history:
> 
>   * Who was a bigger asshole Pope or Milton
>   * Paradise Lost contemporary controversies and criticisms
>   * images: Good Omens David Tennant costume set stills
>   * Do they call a shirt with buttons a button down in British English or is that only american
>   * Harrods UK mens shirts
> 
> No lie I voluntarily took an entire class on "Paradise Lost" in college and smugly thought I had the perfect context to write a fictional literary debate, but I still had to rely on my good friend Wikipedia because that was a long. time. ago. my friends.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna earn that hair petting tag, y'all.

Upon careful rereview, Crowley ultimately decides to put a completion tick mark next to Step 3. Everything had been going swimmingly until he'd gotten greedy and tried to roll Step 3 right into Step 4 without proper set up. When he wakes up the next morning, he heads straight out to fetch some of the little chocolate pastries Aziraphale favors from the bakery that's a twenty minute walk away—the ones Aziraphale rarely fetches himself because they are a whole twenty minute walk away. He saunters back into the bookshop and makes a production of nonchalantly dropping the paper bag at the angel's elbow where he's poring over some book or another at his desk, ridiculously affected glasses perched on his nose.

"What? Oh!" the angel starts. And then, after getting a good look at the logo on the bag: "_Oh._ You shouldn't have," he protests with a gleeful smile as he quickly but precisely unfolds the top of the bag and peeks inside. He inhales deeply and hums a bit, eyes fluttering closed as he takes in the aroma.

Crowley swallows carefully, hands tucked safely in his pockets, and lets the experience of watching Aziraphale thoroughly enjoy something wash over him. It leaves a tingle in his fingers. So far, the peace offering appears to be going over well, so he decides to indulge himself and leans a hip against the desk to continue watching.

Aziraphale carefully sinks his teeth into the first pastry he's pulled from the bag, his free hand carefully cupped to catch any flakes. He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat and opens his eyes, catching Crowley's gaze almost immediately and beaming closed mouth.

Crowley can't help the upward twitch of his lips or palpable fondness in his tone when he says, "You are absolutely covered in pastry, angel. Have some dignity."

Aziraphale wiggles a bit in his chair and pulls an honest-to-someone embroidered handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket to dab at his mouth.

"I really should get over there more often. These are delightful, my dear, thank you."

"Literally do not mention it," Crowley returns with considerably less than his normal bite. He's pleased there doesn't appear to be any lasting damage from his misstep last night. Nothing a judicious tempting hasn't been able to plaster over. Of course, the moment he's feeling back on solid ground, he decides to gamble a bit. "Any plans for the evening? I'm fancying a Bond marathon and a good curry. I haven't made you watch the most recent two yet, and you still owe me for that live poetry reading."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but the effect is a little ruined by the irrepressible smile tugging at his mouth as he works through a second pastry. "Which cinema is showing it?" he hedges. As he isn't a cinephile like Crowley, he has inflexible opinions about the quality of venue he'll allow himself to be talked into attending.

"No cinema." Crowley shrugs. "I've just installed a new sound system in the flat."[12]

"Oh!" the angel says, visibly perking up in anticipation. "Of course. Should I bring anything? Dessert?" He's only visited the flat a handful of times in the 30-ish years Crowley's lived there, and he's always keen on introducing himself to new plants in the demon's garden. Crowley mentally resigns himself to having to punch in a few extra shifts of terrorizing to undo whatever damage the angel is planning.

"If you like," he says agreeably. They settle on a time and a mutually acceptable source for the takeaway Crowley will be ordering in ahead of the angel's arrival. A few minutes later, as Crowley swaggers toward the driver's side of the Bently to head back—already mentally preparing his Step 4 tactics—he pauses and reflects with chagrin that if he wants a properly cozy movie night he'll have to either purchase or—more likely—miracle up a sofa the angel will find comfortable enough to believe Crowley would actually fall asleep on. The baroque benches that currently grace his sitting room are intended to judgmentally inspire good posture, not a cuddly lounge.

He spends more time than strictly reasonable making the sorts of minute adjustments to the living room that make it subtly more inviting while, simultaneously, not looking too wildly outside his normal aesthetic. Only one of the benches suddenly finds itself a rather plush sofa in a suitably dark fabric to still come off as a bit sinister. He originally planned to miracle them both, but thought better of it when he realized the angel might reasonably choose to sit across from him rather than beside, which would defeat the whole exercise.

He manifests his outfit for the evening with equal tactical precision: Well within the parameters of garments he's worn before, but with subtle adjustments in fabric and layering that should render his form much more touchable than usual. He hadn't missed the way Aziraphale eyed his T-shirt the night before, or the way his hands were drawn to the softer wash of his jeans. He keeps the jeans and opts for just a thin, wash-worn T-shirt, foregoing a jacket altogether. The usual loose tie he's kept, but with strict instructions that it should feel like the finest silk should the angel decide to touch it. After careful consideration, he also goes barefoot. Between bare feet and bare arms, he is hoping to (a) increase the perception of openness and (b) get some sweet, sweet skin-to-skin contact. Being touched in his snake-looking skin isn't the same as being touched in his human-looking skin, but now that he had a taste of the warmth of the angel's hands without a barrier of fabric between them, he wants more.

Aziraphale arrives promptly at seven o'clock, and the startled look on his face when he takes in Crowley's appearance almost makes him reflexively miracle his jacket and shoes back on. The thing is, he belatedly realizes, is it's difficult to create the appearance of openness without actually making oneself a little more open.

"Oh, you look quite comfortable," the angel remarks, voice a little pitchy.

"Yee-ep," Crowley responds, rocking back so far on his heels that he has to transform the gesture into a step back into the apartment and add a welcoming arm flourish to avoid falling over.

"Well, a relaxing movie night and all," Aziraphale babbles as he steps inside and vaguely looks around for somewhere to set the bottle of wine and patisserie takeaway bag in his hands. "I suppose it's in theme. Should I follow your example, do you think?" There is a little too much white around his eyes for the question to be anything other than desperate. Crowley winces internally and takes the wine and bag from his friend before the angel miracles a table into existence just to put himself out of his own misery.

"You could," he agrees levelly, "but if it would make you uncomfortable, not much point is there." And then, because the look of naked relief on the angel's face might literally discorporate him, he does an about face and stalks through to the kitchen, calling back, "I'll get us some glasses. Television's through to your right."

He grimly sets the bag and the wine bottle down on the sleek granite countertop of his hideously expensive kitchen and takes a deep breath. Clearly, the outfit was a little over the top, but putting on something else now would only draw more attention to how unusual it is. He'll just have to tread extra carefully over the course of the night if he doesn't want the entire evening to end up a wash. What is most frustrating is that he can feel how amped up his own desires have become in the past week or so of successful escalation, and how his pace is becoming less a smooth acceleration and more a lead-footed stomp that's threatening to stall out the engine. The whole point was to go at a speed the angel could tolerate, and here he is self-sabotaging.

He channels his frustration into a demonic glare at the wine bottle, which abruptly decides to decork and compress twenty minutes of breathing into a two-second fearful hiccup. Slightly mollified, Crowley rolls his neck and reminds himself that he can move like a bloody Ice Age glacier if he bloody well needs to. He is a master of subtle, supremely efficient wiles; he can do this.

Pep talk done with, he fetches glasses and the wine and heads out of the kitchen back into the living room to check how Aziraphale is getting on.

"Curry should be arriving shortly," he announces as he slinks into the room and then rocks to a halt and clicks his mouth firmly closed around a string of stumbling vowels that want to escape after.

Aziraphale is just stepping out of his shoes, tucking them neatly under the bench across from the couch. "Oh, good!" he exclaims with a slightly manic gleam to his smile. His coat, waistcoat, and bow tie are already draped carefully over the seat of the bench, and he's rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbow and loosened the top two buttons of his shirt. His socks, Crowley notes with mounting hysteria, have tartan patches on the toes and heel that match the pattern of his bow tie.

Even though they spent several millennia dressed in various versions of not-that-much as human fashions and prudery levels shifted, it has been at least five hundred years since he's seen this much skin exposed at once on the angel, and he suddenly feels a deep kinship with all those Romantic poets who lost their minds over a glimpse of ankle.

"Comfortable?" Crowley manages, after a moment of rebooting the higher-functioning portions of his brain.

He watches Aziraphale take what is clearly a fortifying breath before saying, "Yes," in the firm tone he uses when shutting down over-eager potential customers inquiring about a book he isn't ready to part with. It is a tone that brooks no questions or rebuttals.

Crowley nods, coaxes his eyebrows back down to a reasonable position on his face, and holds up the wine and glasses in his hands. "Alcohol?"

"_Yes._"

Three hours, 1.5 movies, and one curry dinner with dessert pastries later, and Crowley's initial worry about the success of the evening is slipping away. After a few glasses of wine, they'd overcome the initial awkwardness of letting down their proverbial hair, and things have settled into more-or-less their usual groove, albeit with slightly closer proximity and more exposed forearms. Aziraphale still obnoxiously guesses most of the plot beats well in advance of when they happen in the film. Crowley still throws popcorn at his face and entreats him to "stuff it, angel," when he does so.

They are well into the second movie of the night, and quick glances out of the corner of his eye assures Crowley that Aziraphale is well absorbed in the plot, even if the slight puckering of forehead suggests it is in befuddled outrage more than true appreciation. Crowley had started out the movie sitting next to the angel with his legs thrown up over the remaining cushions of the couch. He's spent the past forty minutes slowly slouching further down and at an angle to where now just a slight adjustment will see the top part of his head pressed gently to Aziraphale's shoulder.[13]

With a choreographed sigh, he tips his head the last crucial centimeters and achieves head-on-shoulder contact. Without the coat in the way, Aziraphale feels like leaning against an at-boil kettle, and Crowley's scalp and the back of his neck break out in goose pimples. It takes every ounce of his demonic strength to maintain the lazy, relaxed slouch he's affecting. He closes his eyes, partly to keep up with the charade and partly because without the extra stimulus of the movie he's able to focus every neuron in his corporation to cataloguing the sensations.

For an entire minute, he's able to revel. Then, he hears the quiet brush of Aziraphale's hair against the back of the sofa as the angel turns to look down at him.

"All right, Crowley?" he murmurs.

Crowley performs a sleepy grumble.

"You're falling asleep, my dear," the angel says, and with Crowley's eyes closed he can't not hear how achingly, gently fond the angel's tone is. That voice is like having a fleece blanket tenderly wrapped around your shoulders. If Crowley wasn't busy literally snuggling into the angel, he'd be a little bit embarrassed for him, flaunting so much softness around.

"S'fine," he grumbles. "Watch th' movie."

"Wouldn't you rather go to bed?" Aziraphale says, still in that buttery-afternoon-sunlight-dappled-through-tree-branches voice. "We can finish this another night."

Crowley just grunts and vaguely flops a hand in the direction of the television. It's a good thing they turned down the lights earlier because he's pretty sure his face is aflame with second-hand embarrassment for how tender the angel sounds.

Aziraphale makes a skeptical-sounding hum, but another shush of sound indicates he's turned his head back to continue watching the movie. Crowley does a mental fist pump and goes back to concentrating on the ten square centimeters of contact between his head and the angel's arm and ensuring his body is relaxed enough to give the appearance of sleep.

He does such a good job that, between one hazy, self-congratulatory thought of triumph and the next, he forgets himself and _actually _falls asleep.

He comes to some time later much more horizontal than when he started and also much warmer. When he slowly blinks his eyes open, the television is dark, and the muted, warm glow of some sort of lamp is softly illuminating the room. Crowley owns starkly fluorescent shaded drop lights, which do a better job of creating fashionable contrast shadows than light up a room, so Aziraphale must have miracled something up while he was asleep. He takes a deep inhale through his nose, gearing up to complain about it, and his senses are assaulted by the kind of concentrated Aziraphale scent that he normally only gets when he presses his face into the sofa cushions in the bookshop while settling in for a nap. The angle of his head, the scent, and the warmth finally add up in his sleep-addled brain to the conclusion that he's somehow ended up with his head lying in the angel's lap.

He must tense up without realizing it, because above him Aziraphale says quietly, "Crowley?" The vibrations from his voice gently buzz the back of Crowley's skull, and his toes involuntarily curl a bit.

He'd like to say the inarticulate grunt he makes is part of his continued charade at feigning sleepy plausible deniability, but in truth he's been struck dumb with sensation.

"Do you want to get on to bed?" the angel asks, still sotto voice.

In lieu of answering, Crowley brings his free arm up from where it was dangling awkwardly behind his back and drapes it over Aziraphale's knees. This serves the dual purpose of partially hiding his face, which he's pretty sure is hosting deeply uncool expressions right now, and (theoretically) holding the angel in place.

His intent must be clear enough, because after a moment he hears paper crinkle and a soft sigh. Aziraphale must have miracled himself a book to read in addition to the lamp.

It doesn't take much effort to relax his body again and even out his breathing to feign dropping back off to sleep. The warm stillness of the room and the occasional rasp of pages turning are quickly dragging him back down. He fights it just enough to be able to properly wallow in hazy delight.

He's not sure how much time passes, but he must have been drifting off again because when he realizes there's a hand softly combing through his hair, he doesn't startle. Aziraphale's fingertips gently graze the short hairs by his face before pressing in more fully as the angel drags through to the longer hair on the crown of Crowley's head and lightly tugs the strands between his fingers as he pulls away. The process repeats itself slowly, druggingly, occasionally interspersed by moments where the angel simply buries his fingers in and cradles the top of his skull, fingertips kneading for a moment before withdrawing.

Crowley goes slightly catatonic with pleasure. He's not even sure Aziraphale realizes what he's doing. The whole thing has the absently meditative regularity he remembers from when the angel had spent literal hours stroking his scales the afternoon he spent coiled in his lap as a snake.

Fuzzily, Crowley realizes he's achieved one of the scenarios from his mental vision board, and it's everything he'd hoped it would be and more. He might never let the angel get up again. He'd probably agree to wearing a tartan suit if it would guarantee Aziraphale would keep his gorgeously soft hand in his hair for the next millennia or two. But the beauty of the Plan is that if he can just carefully ease through a couple more steps, he should be able to get this fix without having to jump through so many hoops. Yes, the angel is coming along quite nicely.

When he next comes to, it's with Aziraphale's hand gently shaking him by the shoulder and a fair amount of ambient sunlight brightening the room.

"My dear, wake up," Aziraphale says briskly. "I'm peckish. How does brunch sound?"

The amount of verve in the angel's voice is far too much for Crowley's foggy mind to deal with. He turns his head to press his face more fully into Aziraphale's thighs and groans in protest.

"Oh, come now. It's been eight hours. That is the recommended amount of sleep. It's time to rise and shine!" Aziraphale concludes cheerfully and gently bounces his legs under Crowley's face.

Crowley groans again, long and drawn out, as he slithers the bottom half of his body off the sofa to a seated position on the floor and lets gravity do most of the work pulling his head from the angel's lap. He thumps his head back against the edge of the sofa seat and glares into Aziraphale's upside-down, grinning face. "Which of us is meant to be the demon again?" he grouses.

The angel closes his book with an obnoxiously loud snap and gets to his feet. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he demures, and glides to the door without looking back.

* * *

  
12 This is technically not false, if you consider “installing” to mean “finally realizing the sound system you bought over a decade ago and that has been miraculously working as expected this whole time was, in fact, meant to come with speakers and so on a lark you decided to miracle some up.” [return to text]

13 This is not a wooing tactic recommended to try at home: A normal human would find the pose figurative hell on their neck and spine. Crowley is a man-shaped person with the deep disdain for spinal limitations that can only be exercised by a demon with a snake-ish pedigree, and even he is finding it uncomfortable. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate web searches in my browser history:
> 
>   * images: baroque style furniture
>   * maps: bakeries near soho, london, uk
>   * styles of lighting fixtures that don't do their job
> 
> I hope it's becoming clear that I only sometimes walk away from these unfortunate searches with something useful to put in the fic.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, kiddos, we're in the home stretch. Also: I bumped the rating to T purely for rude language.

Three days, two lunch dates, a stroll through St. James park, and one dinner at a new sushi place finds Aziraphale wiggling his fingers as the Bentley pulls away from the bookshop into the evening gloam. When the car is finally lost to traffic, Aziraphale drops the cheerful grin he'd been sporting and decisively turns into the bookshop to begin plotting.

While he hasn't not noticed the steady increase in touches and physical closeness over the past two weeks, the recent movie night had illuminated his own desires in ornately embossed relief. The sweet weight of Crowley's head on his lap, the exquisite texture of his hair and skin, the adorably vulnerable snores and grumbles that translated to unspoken trust in the angel's ability to guard his slumber—all of it was like getting a taste of a rare, sensuous vintage of wine, and Aziraphale is ready to buy out not just the entire stock but the whole damn vineyard.

He is sure now that Crowley is reaching out, either consciously or unconsciously, seeking some sort of assurance from Aziraphale, whether simple comfort or a more earthly grip on their relationship. In any case, Aziraphale has decided that he is no longer satisfied with the approach he's been taking to this point, which is more or less to sit invitingly still and pretend he doesn't notice when the twitchy demon sidles closer. But the past three days have been maddening in their lack of satisfactory levels of touching. It's been nothing but accidental brushes of elbow, shoes bumping for a moment under a table, and brief grazes of fingertips as something is passed between them. At one point, he'd tried gently grasping Crowley's hand to get his attention as they wandered through the park, and the demon had gone so rigid he'd stopped breathing. Aziraphale had reluctantly let go and, of course, politely pretended nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

The incident, however, made Aziraphale reflect that every time Crowley had either initiated or submitted to a more intimate level of contact in the past weeks, one or both of them hadn't been entirely in possession of their faculties. The demon had also seemed not just startled but uncomfortable when Aziraphale had met him sartorially halfway during their recent movie night.

This careful review of events has led him to conclude that any attempt to let Crowley know he'd like nothing more than to indulge in a good cuddle whenever the fancy struck either of them would likely backfire and possibly even damage the entire relationship.[14] Instead, he's decided the best way forward is to lay out an invitation to physical intimacy so temptingly delectable that the demon won't be able to help accepting. In short, he needs to lay a cuddle trap.

The location of his first trap is, of course, the bookshop, where he can control all elements. All it takes is a brief phone call to ensure Crowley will arrive late the following morning, under the pretense that they have lunch at a new tapas place that has opened up two blocks over.

When Crowley strolls in a quarter past eleven the next morning, however, Aziraphale doesn't look up from the book he's reading. He knows the scene and the overall impression he presents, however, because he's carefully cultivated it to exacting detail.

What Crowley encounters is this: Aziraphale sitting on one end of the sofa, one of his favorite tomes in hand, nose buried as he reads intently. Spread across the low table in front of the sofa are several other books of a similar flavor. At his elbow on the end table is a stone cold cup of cocoa. On his person is a blue-and-cream striped silk pajama set, a blue tartan flannel house robe, and slippers. Everything is meticulously crafted to create the impression that after he changed into his nightwear the evening before he got caught up in a reading binge and has quite lost track of time. The cunning of this trap is its banality. Crowley has stumbled upon him in such a situation often enough that, despite a lot of care and attention going into the arrangement of this particular occasion, it shouldn't ping the demon's healthily developed paranoia radar.

As expected, Crowley barely pauses at the threshold of the shop before continuing to saunter in. The sounds of a quiet snap and click assure Aziraphale that Crowley's taken care to lock up behind him (after having been forced to unlock to let himself in).

"Angel," he murmurs, "we still on for lunch?"

"Hmm?" Aziraphale drags his eyes from the book and gives Crowley the distracted smile he gives potential customers trying to get his attention. "Oh, you're here early," he says, because it's not really a lie and also serves the overall impression he's trying to exude. "I'll be done with this in two shakes. Make yourself comfortable." And then he capital F Focuses on the book in his hands, deliberately letting himself get caught up in the story.

As soon as he hears Crowley shift away, he draws his attention back from the book to track the demon's progress as he meanders around the bookshop. It takes only seven minutes before Crowley's footsteps wander back to the general vicinity of the study. Aziraphale makes sure he's superficially tracking the words on the page so he can continue to turn pages at convincingly regular intervals. He's self aware enough to know he's not particularly skilled at deception, but this is the sort of game he regularly plays with persistent customers to discourage smalltalk and ensure opinions of his abilities as a shopkeeper remain suitably low. The point is, he has over a hundred years of practice that mean he's able to keep his anxiety at bay and hopefully put on a convincing performance for the demon.

Crowley pads up to the sofa so quietly that if Aziraphale wasn't paying excruciating attention he likely wouldn't have heard him. The demon stands next to him for awhile; the angel patiently turns a page and begins a new chapter.

After another minute, Crowley slowly sits down next to him on the sofa, so gently Aziraphale can barely feel the indent of the cushion next to him. Success, he thinks to himself, and tries simultaneously to project an aura of complete distraction and alluring invitation.

Twenty minutes later, the patience with which he commenced this plan is starting to wear thin. Every few minutes or so, Crowley shifts minutely closer. The intervals are regular enough and the movements so careful that Aziraphale realized about ten minutes in they weren't natural. It would be endearingly awkward if the demon wasn't taking so bloody long to get to the point. At the rate he's moving, it will likely be another twelve years before they so much as brush shoulders. Aziraphale was anticipating some amount of skittishness, but he's seen wild rabbits acclimate to rambunctious seven-year-old not-antichrists faster.

Frankly, the whole process is calculated enough that he's becoming more confident that the changes in the past two weeks must be more conscious than unconscious on the demon's part. It doesn't change the fact that when Aziraphale has tried bolder moves, Crowley has startled, but he _does_ appear to keep coming back when he thinks Aziraphale is sufficiently distracted.

With that thought in mind, and the fraying edges of his patience making it more and more difficult to keep up playacting at reading, he decides he needs to take a risk if he wants to make any sort of progress in the next century. Crowley has three times demonstrated that he doesn't object overly much to having parts of him resting in Aziraphale's lap, especially if the angel doesn't draw overt attention to the unusualness of the situation. Perhaps, if he creates the right impression when he...

Aziraphale hums to himself and then reaches to his left without bringing his eyes up from the page. He gropes a bit at Crowley's right shoulder, and takes a tiny amount of satisfaction in awkwardly pawing over the side of the demon's face, before progressing behind his back and firmly gripping the demon's left shoulder and pulling. Crowley's stiff as a fresh corpse and makes some strangled sounding noises in the back of his throat, but he doesn't resist when Aziraphale guides him down and sideways until his head is resting in the angel's lap—all while keeping up the fiction that he's still reading. Once he has Crowley in place, he rests his elbow gently on Crowley's arm and rebalances the book, as though his only aim was to use his friend as an unconventional armrest.

Crowley lies tense and awkward in his lap long enough that Aziraphale gets bored enough to start reading again. He's still attuned enough, though, that he notices when Crowley makes small adjustments to unkink the awkward angle of his spine, draw the rest of his legs up onto the sofa, and—finally—draw off his glasses (which is a relief since they were poking meanly into Aziraphale's thigh). After he feels the demon finally begin to relax more fully in his lap, he waits a few more minutes before shifting the book to the arm of the sofa to free up his left hand. Once done, he promptly buries his fingers in Crowley's hair. Crowley makes a quiet sound like "ngk," but doesn't object.

At first, Aziraphale simply lets his palm rest over the demon's temple, balancing his arm on Crowley's shoulder, to let the demon adjust. When he feels Crowley relax again, he begins gently running his fingers through the soft strands, luxuriating in the silken texture. A covert glance downward shows the demon's eyes closed and face slack with what looks like pleasure. Aziraphale feels his own face crinkle quite without permission into a satisfied smile.

Several thoroughly delightful minutes of petting Crowley's hair pass in relaxed silence. Whatever reluctance Crowley had initially shown, he's apparently abandoned, as he's gone nearly boneless on the sofa, mouth parted slightly and breathing deep and even as he submits to the gentle treatment.

Feeling daring, Aziraphale moves his hand from the crown of Crowley's head to scratch softly at the hair at his temples. From there, he brushes his fingertips lightly over the demon's forehead, tracing his eyebrows and the line of his cheekbone. Crowley makes an inarticulate sound deep in his throat at this, but he doesn't move, which Aziraphale takes as tacit permission to keep exploring. He rubs his thumb over the shell of Crowley's ear and presses gently at the soft spot just behind his earlobe where his neck and jawline meet. From there, it's easy to let his palm cup Crowley by the chin and cradle the far side of the dear demon's face in his hand.

Crowley sighs and pushes into the contact, briefly pinning Aziraphale's hand to his lap. Aziraphale's breath catches in his throat. It's the first time Crowley has more than passively participated, and the subtle acknowledgement—nearly a request—sets Aziraphale's tender passions aflame. Wildly emboldened, he decides to abandon all pretense and shifts the book to the end table, careful of the mug of cocoa. With both hands free, he can place his right hand on the top of the Crowley's head so that he has him entirely, tenderly held.

"My dear," he murmurs, letting just a small fraction of everything painfully backed up in his chest trickle out.

Crowley doesn't answer or open his eyes, but he does reach up with a faintly trembling hand to tug Aziraphale's left wrist. Aziraphale obligingly lets his hand be pulled down and pressed to Crowley's chest. The demon's heart isn't pounding. It's miraculously as steady and slow as a monk's. That probably shouldn't make Aziraphale feel quite so giddy, but he thinks he can decipher what Crowley is trying to convey: The faint tremble in his limbs, the refusal to make eye contact, the complete absence of flash, all betray how affected the demon is. If he were human, his heart should be pounding just as hard as Aziraphale is allowing his to do. Instead, it's deliberately calm, sure, at peace.

Aziraphale spends a long time treasuring the feel of the steadfast thump under his left hand, while keeping up the gentle petting of Crowley's hair with the other. Eventually, Crowley's grip on his wrist shifts, and Aziraphale realizes he's being encouraged to move his hand. He gladly sweeps his hand diagonally across Crowley's chest from belly to shoulder and back again in firm strokes. Crowley twists so he's lying flat on his back and tucks his left hand between the back of the couch and Aziraphale's lower back. With his right arm he reaches down to grip Aziraphale's left ankle. Finally, with a quietly hissing sigh, Crowley tilts his face up just slightly toward Aziraphale in blatant invitation.

Aziraphale barely prevents a delighted laugh from escaping his lips at the picture Crowley makes, and contents himself with a small wiggle to release some of the joyful tension suffusing him. Then, he devotes himself to laying tender hands upon every wonderfully pointy and soft bit of his friend's corporation that Crowley's so generously offered up for Aziraphale's tactile pleasure.

He rubs careful fingers over every rib, keeping the pressure firm enough not to tickle,[15] and takes care to learn the width of Crowley's sternum where it juts through his thin T-shirt. He fits Crowley's far shoulder into the palm of his hand, and then drags his fingertips across both clavicles, lovingly fondling the notches. With exceptional care, he cups the far side of Crowley's neck and then feathers his fingers down the nobbly line of the throat bared so trustingly to him. All the while, Aziraphale rests his right hand on the demon's forehead and meditatively drags his thumb up and down the sharp line of Crowley's nose. It's like learning the binding of a particularly sacred book, and Aziraphale commits himself to the process wholeheartedly and with radiant satisfaction.

After some indeterminable amount of time, he brings his left hand back up so he's cradling Crowley's face again. The temptation to ruck up Crowley's T-shirt so he can continue to learn the texture of his skin is becoming overwhelming, and he's not foolish enough to think they can continue to escalate this sort of intimacy without talking about mutual desires and intentions to at least some degree.

"Crowley," he says, still lightly stroking at the demon's jaw and scalp with his fingers. "My dearest, will you open your eyes, please?"

It takes a minute, but eventually the demon lifts his eyelids to half mast. He's still rather boneless on Aziraphale's lap, but his mouth has tensed up just enough that he looks like he's thinking about sulking.

"I can't help but notice that you've ended up in my lap an unprecedented number of times these past weeks," he begins quietly, keeping up the petting to hopefully preemptively smooth any feathers he might be ruffling by being so gouache as to acknowledge not just what's been happening but the potential feelings associated with the actions. "This is quite lovely," he assures when Crowley tenses under his hands. "I would very much like to keep doing more of this and, er, possibly other things, if you are amenable." He swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. "You see, I'm terrifically fond of you, and it makes me want to be as close to you as is possible in these earthly forms, and I'm quite tired of letting old fears get in the way." To his mild dismay, he feels tears pricking his eyes, even as his mouth is stretched to discomfort with smiling.

By this point, Crowley's eyes are wide open and getting increasingly round. One foot has slipped off the couch to the floor. From the amount of trembling tension in the demon's body, Aziraphale's certain if he weren't physically holding onto him, Crowley would have slithered out the door and snapped himself back to Mayfair by now.

"Please, Crowley, can you tell me how close is too close? I don't want to overstep."

Crowley's already faintly shaking his head in Aziraphale's hands. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but not even the usual garble of vowels that escape when he's flustered manage past what looks like stark terror closing his throat.

Aziraphale hurries to soothe him, making shushing noises and rubbing his hand firmly up and down the demon's chest. "Oh, darling, forgive me, I didn't mean to upset you. You don't have to tell me just now if you don't wish to." He strokes his thumb over Crowley's violently warm and red forehead. "We can carry on like this until you're ready."

At this, Crowley finally gathers enough coherence to glower and make an outraged noise in the back of his throat. Aziraphale blinks in surprise. He's not sure what exactly he's said that's offended, but reflects it might just be the demon's knee-jerk reaction to being accused of having An Emotion.

"Until _I'm_ ready," Crowley says in a muted shriek and then violently lifts himself up so he can flop sideways onto the couch and bury his face in Aziraphale's belly, arms snaking roughly around the angel's waist. Aziraphale lets his arms hang in the air for a moment as he tries to assess whether the scream Crowley is currently muffling in the plush fabric of his nightwear means any further active touch would be unwelcome. But then Crowley unwinds one arm to blindly reach up and, after a bit of flailing, locate Aziraphale's hand and firmly plant it back in his hair.

Aziraphale harrumphs but nevertheless wraps his left arm possessively around the demon's shoulders and picks back up finger combing his hair. "If you've been _wanting_ me to pet you, you could have just asked," he points out in what he thinks is an eminently reasonable tone.

Crowley moans something that might have been "are you serious" into his belly but doesn't relax the stranglehold he has on his waist.

"Well," Aziraphale allows, "it does seem likely we're already in a fair degree of accord." He scratches his short nails over Crowley's scalp just so he can smugly confirm it makes the demon shiver and relax the rictus of his hold. "When you're quite through sulking, we can discuss this like reasonable beings and agree on what sort of arrangement we'd find mutually satisfying."

This goads Crowley into turning his head enough to expose one baleful eye and his mouth. "What happened to ‘you go too fast for me, Crowley,'" he hisses in a simperingly melodramatic tone that Aziraphale assumes is supposed to be him.

"That was _before_," he says placidly and drags his left hand up the length of Crowley's back to firmly squeeze his nape. As anticipated, the demon's eyelids automatically droop. "Oh, how _responsive_ you are, my dear," he says, not masking the delighted adoration in his tone, in part because Aziraphale knows it will make the demon squirm but also because he figures it's only sporting to let Crowley see how much this is affecting him too.

"Ngk," the demon responds, and then, "you're such a bastard."

Aziraphale hums in pleasure and continues petting.

After holding grimly onto his glaring pout for another minute, Crowley heaves an enormously put-on sigh and admits, "This is more or less what I'm after. Could do with less interrogation."

"And I could do with less subterfuge," Aziraphale counters tartly, though he realizes his tone is rather undercut by the way he's gently twisting locks of Crowley's hair around his fingers with the vague idea of seeing whether he can coax any demonic curls out of a coiffure this short.

"Ugh, this is exactly why I didn't want to talk about it," Crowley grouses.

"Yes, but if we don't talk, then I won't know whether or not it's acceptable for me to put my hand up your shirt," Aziraphale counters, tapping Crowley's lower back meaningfully. "And whether, if I put my hand up your shirt, if you'll also want me to want to put my hand, um, _other_ places as well."

"Oh, Someone, smite me," Crowley mutters darkly.

"It's just that I know you've at least some amount of history of making an effort—"

"Angel, you are literally killing me right now."

"—and while I'm not, in the strictest sense, _un_interested in any activities that you might find enjoyable, it's not something I _personally_—"

"No efforts needed," Crowley says loudly. "Blessed buggering fuck, Aziraphale, you are absolute rubbish at this."

"There's no need to be rude," Aziraphale says, a little stung, truth be told. He removes his hands from Crowley's back and head, but realizes he can't fold them together over his belly like he normally would since his lap is too full of vexing demon. He's saved from the equally mortifying options of crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child or stretching them out over the back of the sofa like... well, like _Crowley_, because the demon himself reaches up and catches his left hand and, with a grim set to his mouth, links their fingers together and tucks their entwined arms close to his chest.

"Didn't say I was any better at it," he grumbles.

"Certainly not," Aziraphale snaps. He softens, though, when Crowley tugs their hands up enough that he can rest the knuckles of Aziraphale's hand against his lips. Almost a kiss, but not quite, and it's enough of a difference that it makes the knot of anxious nerves that has been winding up since Aziraphale realized he would have to raise the topic loosen the tiniest bit.

"Look," Crowley says eventually and pauses, clearly marshalling himself. When he speaks, each word is said somberly to the fabric covering Aziraphale's belly, his lips brushing their joined hands: "I'm going to... enjoy... just about anything you want to do, angel. If you're not sure about something, just ask. You know I'm not shy about giving my honest opinion if I don't like something. And, er, while I've tried most things out, and on, and in, and, well... it's not something I really _personally_, either."

There's enough weight given to the word "enjoy" that Aziraphale feels confident this is the demon's way of saying "absolutely divinely love." He beams and caresses the side of Crowley's face with his free hand.

"Oh, well done, my dear," he says with exaggerated fondness. He can't help letting all his gooey love leak out all over the demon, just as he also can't resist a petty bit of getting his own back. "I know how difficult that must have been for you. I'm so awfully proud." Crowley's face is screwed up in the beginnings of a strop, but he's also looking a little poleaxed by the amount of beatific joy and contentment Aziraphale knows he's radiating at the moment.[16]

"Arsehole," Crowley finally manages on a whimper.

Aziraphale tucks his hand up the back of his demon's shirt and presses it flat against the skin between his shoulder blades. "Oh, that's _lovely_," he sighs happily.

* * *

  
14 At the exact moment Aziraphale is ironically concluding, Crowley spontaneously recalls the conversation they had in the Bentley once upon a three-weeks-ago when Aziraphale preachily concluded something about all wiles containing the seed of their own destruction. He makes a face to himself and continues menacing an underperforming elephant ear plant. [return to text]

15 Crowley would not deign to let his corporation be ticklish, but it’s the principle of the matter, and the demon silently appreciates the consideration. [return to text]

16 Even if demons lose their sensitivity to feelings like love when they fall, being physically pressed against the equivalent of a supernova going off is still going to make an impression. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate web searches in my browser history:
> 
>   * men's fashion sleepwear 1920s, 1930s
>   * maps: restaurants soho, london, uk


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little epilogue so Crowley can do the equivalent of a "Breakfast Club" victory jump-freeze.

Two months later, Aziraphale is just locking up when he looks out the window and spies the Bentley coming to a screeching halt across the street in a space that, under normal circumstances, is a loading-only zone.

He immediately throws open the door and steps out onto the stoop. "Crowley!" he greets with unfettered delight as the demon unfolds himself from the driver's side door of the car. He's wearing a terrific scowl as he stalks across the street with his shoulders up around his ears.

"Bad day, dear?" Aziraphale asks solicitously and draws his face into an empathetic grimace.

Crowley just curls his lip and grasps the angel's wrist as he brushes by him into the bookshop. He doesn't slow down the ground-eating pace his long legs set, but the grip he has on Aziraphale's wrist is gentle as he tugs him inexorably along.

Aziraphale locks up with a snap and lets himself be drawn back through the shop and up the stairs leading off the back room into the efficiency flat. "Would you like to tell me about it?" he offers, not truly expecting a reply. It's only been in the past few weeks that Crowley has started seeking him out in these sorts of moods, rather than holing up in his grim flat and taking out his ire on his unfortunate plants.

Crowley doesn't slow down until he's walked them right up to the double bed, where he stops abruptly and tugs Aziraphale up beside him. He whips off his sunglasses and tosses them on the bedside table before fixing Aziraphale with a supremely grumpy look. "All right, angel?" he asks, jerking his chin toward the bed.

Aziraphale smiles. "Of course. Pajamas or no?"

"No," Crowley says, and with a snap has them both stripped down to the short pants they've come to find agreeable for this sort of situation.[17]

Aziraphale obligingly turns so his back is to the bed and grins expectantly. While his scowl remains mostly fixed, the very corner of Crowley's mouth twitches the barest amount as he reaches out and lightly shoves at the center of the angel's chest. Aziraphale lets himself fall back and bounce against the delightfully plush cream-colored duvet. When Crowley crawls up after him and over him, Aziraphale eagerly reaches up and guides him down with one hand at Crowley's back and the other grasping the back of his neck. From there, the demon fairly collapses on top of him, face buried in the side of Aziraphale's neck.

For some minutes, Aziraphale contentedly ruffles his hand through the hair at the back of Crowley's neck and runs his fingers over the knobs of his spine, feeling the demon's slightly cooler skin steadily warm under the influence of angelic pampering. Crowley eventually drags his arms up from their sprawl on the bed to tuck up against Aziraphale's sides. He worms his hands just under Aziraphale's back and spreads his fingers wide to cover as much skin as possible.

Judging this to mean that the worst of whatever this is has passed, Aziraphale turns his head far enough to press a kiss to the shell of Crowley's ear and whisper, "Better, dear heart?"

Crowley squeezes his whole body closer and tighter around Aziraphale and sighs. "Perfect," he mutters against the soft skin of his angel's neck.

* * *

  
17 Even when not making an effort—which Aziraphale has only on a few brief occasions cared to do, for science, and Crowley only does when he feels the line and lay of a tempting couture needs a little extra something—for some ineffable reason there is still a danger of _chafing_. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate web searches in my browser history:
> 
>   * Lyrics to classic 80s bebop hit "(Let's Get) Physical"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] It's Getting Hard, This Holding Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24023212) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)


End file.
